


and midas is king

by thelimitsofthe_sea



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Angst, F/M, Friendship/Love, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Jealousy, Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-21
Updated: 2016-07-21
Packaged: 2018-07-25 22:05:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7548973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelimitsofthe_sea/pseuds/thelimitsofthe_sea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No matter what happened in the day, these secret nights, halfway between reality and dreaming, belonged to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and midas is king

          It had started several months after Niall’s funeral- probably wouldn’t have happened at all if it wasn’t for the violent repurposing of a tire iron, a boy rubbing early morning sleep out of his eyes, blue flowers scattered on a bloody corpse. There are moments that can change a life irreparably, and whatever future had existed concretely was gone forever when Ronan opened that door.

Gansey already knew all about diverted paths. His body crawling with bees, a voice whispered in his ears, a sacrifice made that could never be undone. There were many roads young Gansey could have trod, all of which were closed to him now. There was only one path he could see, and he was determined to travel it, stumbling blindly for the next clue, the next foothold, anything that would lead him to Glendower.

So the route that had been laid out for Gansey and Ronan shifted, perhaps due to one of those events, perhaps to both of them, perhaps due to that ancient creaking magic some call fate.

They were in uncharted territory now, and anything was possible.

 

     There was no Lynch family without Niall-  planets can only stay aligned with a sun to bind them. Ronan suddenly found himself on his own, fatherless, banned from the land that had grown him. Nothing defined him except a boundless grief, a grief so deep it became hate, and he plunged into it willingly, the blackness the only thing that made sense. He would have drowned in a matter of months, was well on his way to it, if Gansey hadn’t insisted on pulling him out. Dick the III, lover of all lost causes. And who better to be Ronan Lynch’s anchor than another lost boy? Ronan in the middle of his furious sadness, Gansey on the the strange and lonely quest he’d chosen. It had made sense when it had happened, had almost seemed inevitable- it wouldn’t have a year ago, but this was a different time, and they were different boys. Raven boys. Gansey’s arms were soft and sure, his whispered words understanding. A beach for Ronan to wreck himself on, but he was still crashing around on the open sea. Ronan didn’t know whether he wanted to sink or swim, but for now, Gansey kept him somewhere in between.

 

     Of course, it couldn’t be the two of them forever. Gansey’s group of confidantes expanded- Adam Parrish, a boy made of Henrietta dust and heavy hopes resting on frail shoulders, the wispy Noah who drifted in and out, but could come out of nowhere with a smart remark. Gansey seemed a little lighter with the four of them assembled, now that the weight of the knowledge and the longing of the quest was divided among them. And of course, they were all devoted to it- or to him rather, but it was the same thing. It was obvious he was a natural leader, born for this, designed to have a circle around him, and he the centre. Ronan knew this, tried to reassure himself with the rightness of it whenever he felt the ugly bite of envy gnawing at him. But it showed through anyhow, when Ronan carefully watched the budding friendship between Gansey and Parrish, and couldn’t help but want for the days when it was just the two of them. And then he hated himself for it, for Gansey was so clearly happier now.

He tried to hide it from him, but it came out one night in  a biting comment about Parrish, as he watched Gansey meticulously assemble shingles on the roof of the mock Henrietta courthouse. It was so ridiculously unneccessary- it was so _Gansey_ \- that it made Ronan’s heart hurt.

“Well of course he hangs on to you,” Ronan had scoffed in response to a praising remark Gansey had made about Adam. “It’s the closest he’ll ever get to Ivy League, and he knows it.” Gansey looked up to him, gaze level, and Ronan hated the disappointment he saw in it.

“Why do you hate Adam?” Gansey asked simply, for once paring down a question to the bare bones. This straightforwardness was a gift, one rarely granted, only in these strangely peaceful insomniac nights they shared together.

“I don’t,” he said, swallowing. Silence hung in the air- he could hear his heart beating, he could hear Gansey’s steady breath.There was only the distant ticking of a clock, the faint smell of mint in the space between them.  He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to.

“Oh, Ronan,” Gansey said simply. Ronan looked away, feeling as vulnerable as if he’d said the end of that statement.

“Ronan,” Gansey repeated, but he couldn’t bring himself to turn to him, the vastness of whatever was lying unspoken between them terrifying.

He felt the heat of Gansey’s body beside him, and then a cool hand rested ever so lightly on the side of his face.

“Look at me.” Ronan did, the calm authority in Gansey’s voice leaving him with no other option. Gansey kept his hand on his face, running his thumb down the side of Ronan’s cheek. His lips were a whisper away.

“Do I do this with Parrish?” he asked, eyes lidded, voice low. Ronan grinned and leaned in to bridge the gap, because, no, this was theirs, this would always be Gansey and Ronan. No matter what happened in the day, these secret nights, halfway between reality and dreaming, belonged to him.

 

      But even Richard Gansey III could not save Ronan Lynch. There was something raging inside him that could not be quelled, and the only thing that came close was the adrenaline rushing through his blood as he drove way past the speed limit, way past sanity, betting with death as he skirted back and forth over the yellow line, leaving tire tracks burned onto the road behind him. And something more hidden, more shameful, the opposite to the bravado of his street racing- bottles and bottles grimly chugged alone in his room at night, the burn of liquor down his throat the closest to salvation he’s ever got, but with enough sting to remind him that this too is punishment. Both frustrated and confused Gansey to no end, and he could see the hurt on his face, his unspoken question etched in the furrow of his brow- _aren’t I enough?_ Ronan wants to say yes, but in truth he is a sinner, and he needs his sinner’s vices.

So when he hears Gansey’s footsteps padding to his door, something hard braces in his chest. He doesn’t have the strength for this tonight, he cannot deal with a reprimand, nor even gentle disappointment. The bottle in front of him is half empty, and all he wants is to finish it and sink into an oblivious sleep. If he ignored him, Gansey would probably go away.

“Are you going to stand there all night, or are you going to come in?” he barks. As if he ever would. Gansey opens his door gratefully and slips in.

“You can hear me through all that?” Gansey asks with a small laugh, referring to the crashing music that is audible in the room even though he’s wearing headphones. Ronan doesn’t respond, the answer being obvious, but he pulls his headphones off and tosses them to the side. The two boys sit in the newly born silence for several minutes, Ronan taking another swig out of the bottle. Despite his earlier trepidation, Ronan does not sense anything coming from Gansey other than a desire for company.

“Can I have some?” he asks suddenly. Ronan blinked in confusion for several seconds, and when he realizes he means the booze, his expression turns to surprise. It’s not that Gansey doesn’t drink, but he drinks in the celebratory champagne and evening glass of wine way. Not in the sitting in the floor sharing a bottle of hard alcohol with Ronan kind of way.

“Are you sure?” he asks after a moment. Gansey just looks at him, his turn to be silent in the face of unnecessary questions. “Knock yourself out,” he shrugs, and hands it to him.

“I’ll leave that to you,” he says, without any bite, but takes a long chug. Ronan watches him drink; his eyes closed, his throat moving, the slight wince at the sudden hit. He puts the bottle down, wipes his mouth, and smiles at Ronan, but his smile is small and sad, and Ronan notices just how tired he looks. He almost asks him what’s wrong, but he knows it’s a stupid question, one he would snarl at if Gansey ever turned it on him. Instead he just slings an arm around Gansey, keeping his gaze on the wall in front of him. Gansey curls into him instantly, obviously needing to be touched, to be comforted. Ronan wishes he knew more ways to give it, but this is all they have.

“What if I never find him?” Gansey breathes, just below a whisper, and Ronan wouldn’t have heard him if they weren’t this close, the words spoken against his collarbone.

There are no words for him to say, no assurances can be given in this game that Gansey has chosen to play. Ronan hears the fear underneath it- _who will I be then?_ Who would Gansey be without Glendower? Who is Ronan without Niall Lynch? If Ronan knew the answers, he would gladly tell him; but answerless, in the dark, he kisses him instead. Gansey responds immediately, hungrier than usual. Ronan can taste the sharp booze on his breath, but while it always tastes like sweet sin to Ronan, in Gansey’s mouth it has been sanctified- holy wine, his goodness turning it into burning absolution. Maybe if he kisses him hard enough, he can get some for himself.

Gansey’s hand wander, needy, under his shirt, fingers hot against his tattoo. Ronan grabs his arms and pulls back, panting. Gansey shoots him a questioning look.

“Not here,” Ronan says, shaking his head. Not in this room or this bed, where he has been trapped with his nightmare creations too many nights to count. You only can mix the sacred and the profane to a certain point. Gansey nods, seemingly understanding, or at least willing to go along with him. Taking his hand, he leads him out into the cathedral hall of Monmouth, the skeleton of his bed frame glowing in the moonlight, the bare mattress tilted to the side.

Gansey sits on the edge looking paler than he really is, his face a contrast of light and shadow, waiting for Ronan to join him. Something tightens in Ronan’s chest- this boy and his mad quest, this boy who is alone even when Ronan pulls him close, even when they’re together like this, as close as two bodies can be.

“You’re a king in this room,” Ronan says against his sweatslicked skin later. _You don’t need to find one._ Gansey’s eyes widen in surprise, before softening into an expression that Ronan wants to turn away from. He forces himself not to, holds Gansey’s gaze. My king, he repeats, or maybe he says it in his head, it doesn’t matter, because Gansey pulls him even closer and his thoughts are drifting into sleep. And even Ronan Lynch can’t save Richard Gansey III, but for that night there is peace.

 

         Less than a month later and Ronan is lying in a hospital bed, staring resolutely at anywhere but Gansey, bandages thick over his torn up arms, chafing painfully over the still raw scabs. He’s never seen Gansey cry before, but he is now, openly, without shame, as he sits in a plastic chair by his bed. It’s one of the most terrible things Ronan has ever seen, and he has seen too many of them. _Why?_ Gansey demands, over and over, angrily, then despairingly, then finally hollowly. Ronan does not answer him; he cannot. The truth is more horrible than what Gansey thinks has happened, the strangeness of it is too foreign for words. His secet, his secret that is also his father’s secret, is his own, and he can’t give it up, not even to Gansey. Gansey eventually falls silent, realizing that there is a barrier up that even his words cannot pierce. He stays for another hour, Ronan not once looking at or speaking to him, before standing up to leave with a sigh. Ronan can’t help himself, he turns to look at Gansey as he stands in the doorframe.

“My knight,” he says simply, echoing Ronan’s words. “My perfect broken knight.” There’s a lump in Ronan’s throat, and once Gansey is gone, he finds tears of his own coursing down his cheeks, and he does nothing to hide it.

 

       There is the change that we are aware of immediately, the kind of change we have already spoken of.  But there is also change that sneaks in slowly, without us ever even realizing it, and it is just as irreversible. Ronan would never have guessed that it would come in the form of a five-foot-nothing, mop-topped girl named Blue. Then again, maybe he should’ve known: the girl may have been tiny, but she was a force to be reckoned with. Ronan, so poised to pounce at any sight of threat, had let his guard down, had let her into this delicate equilibrium of Raven Boys, begrudgingly at first, but he’d done it all the same.

One day, he saw Blue look at Gansey a certain way, and he looked back, and he thought _oh,_ and then he knew. He also knew that it was far too late to do anything about it.

If he and Gansey had been inevitable, this was more so. A girl with fate in her veins, stars in her eyes, enveloped by magic- how could Gansey resist? Ronan had sworn his loyalty to Gansey, over and over, in every way he knew how, and he would do it all again in a heartbeat. But his commitment to Glendower was nothing more than his commitment to Gansey.  Gansey needed more than fealty, that was easy enough for him to get. Gansey needed to be understood. And in Blue’s eyes, the wonder of his quest was alive; she understood longings and dreamings and the desire for something _more._ Try as he might, all Ronan wanted was home. He would give his life for Gansey’s quest, but he couldn’t understand it. Blue didn’t even have to try.

Ronan, Ronan Lynch, should have been furious, he should have been burning with rage. But when he glanced away- quickly, as though he were invading something intimate, even though it was nothing more than a look, a look almost the same and yet entirely different than the ones Gansey used to give him- all he felt was a strange and resigned combination of disappointment and relief.

He couldn’t be angry at Blue: she had not caused the widening space between the two boys, she’d only hastened it. He couldn’t rage against Gansey’s betrayal: it wasn’t possible to betray a relationship that was never defined, only ever existing in touches and trailed off sentences in the hours between midnight and morning. He could hate himself, he supposed, for his carelessness. But to say he'd lost Gansey would be to presume he'd ever had a claim on him, and he knew that wasn't true. Gansey glanced over, shooting him a perplexed little smile- Ronan must have been staring off into space-before turning back to the group, back to the quest, onwards and upwards, excelsior.

 

      They’re in the car together, night black forest passing by outside the windows. It’s quiet, Ronan’s radio mute for once, the only sound is the hum of the fans and the sound of Gansey methodically chewing his mint leaf. Next to the clamour of Kavinsky’s field, the silence seems obscene. Ronan drives fast to make up for it, too fast; for once Gansey doesn’t say anything about it, just closes his eyes, leans back, throat naked, bathed green in the light of the dash. Ronan grips the wheel tighter.

Kavinsky is the reason for the unbalanced feeling in the air, or maybe it’s that Gansey’s leaving tomorrow, only for the weekend, yet somehow it feels like more than that.

“There was never a time when that could’ve been you and me,” Gansey says. If it’s a reassurance, it feels like a punch to the gut. Of course it couldn’t be- Ronan, so used to destroying, had always touched Gansey reverently. He and Kavinsky were made of the same damaged stuff, there was no need for restraint or rebuilding, no, part of the fun of Kavinsky’s game was seeing what a mess they could make. Gansey had touched him like he wanted to save him, Kavinsky fucked like he was trying to burn him down- but what a glorious crash Ronan was. _This is what you deserve._

Gansey, careful chooser of words, stares ahead, still except for the chewing, except for his fingers drumming softly against his knee. Whatever unspoken thing lies between them is building, building, thicker than ever before, filling the car. He realizes that this is one of those moments, same as his hand on the door, same as Gansey’s game of hide and seek. This second will pass, and it will never come again. He doesn’t say anything. He never could.

"While I’m gone,” Gansey says, “dream me the world. Something new for every night.”  

The words are kind, they’re beautiful, it’s the brand of sincere eloquence only he could come up with. They’re also a dismissal, and Gansey is a king, and his word is law. Whatever was in the car has broken, gone, past the point of retrieval. The ancient cycle of fate has clicked on, like the clock on Ronan’s dash, like the vein on Gansey’s throat counting heartbeats.


End file.
